


Founding Fathers

by vocal_bard (atrickstertype)



Category: American Gods - Neil Gaiman
Genre: Caper Fic, Gambling, Gen, Origins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-25
Updated: 2010-12-25
Packaged: 2017-10-14 02:18:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/144265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/atrickstertype/pseuds/vocal_bard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the middle-early 1800s, they ran a five-man con.  A big one.  Warnings for a racist main character and horrible blasphemy.  Squint for slash.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Back Room

**Author's Note:**

  * For [eight_demands](https://archiveofourown.org/users/eight_demands/gifts).



To get to the room you had to go past the poker tables, the bar, and the piano player.  There was a staircase just to his left that still sent up tiny puffs of sawdust when you stepped on it.  It led up to the balcony that ran the length of the back wall.  About halfway down that balcony was the door.  

The room, unlike the rest of the building, did not smell like new wood.  It smelt like burning tobacco and spilled liquor and (very faintly) of new fabric.  Its main feature was a gleaming, round, green-felted table which, together with its chairs, took up most of the free space.  There were no windows, just four gas lamps that hung on the walls.  Tonight their flames were small, and their light caught in the thick smoke that made up most of the air.  It filled the room like a bright fog, only dimly illuminating the table and leaving the figures around it mostly concealed.

One of them, distinguishable only as light grey suit and a wolfs-head cane, spoke.  “It’s a dark business.  Even for us.”

“These are dark days.  Ever since the damn- No offence, Lucas.” This last with the nod of a bowlered head.

A man in a chambray shirt chuckled. “None taken, I assure you.”

“Thanks.  Ever since the damn English came, we’ve been losing power here.  That’s two-hundred some years of waiting patiently for a change in the wind that hasn‘t come.  I’m ready to start looking for  an alternative.”

The fourth wore buckskins, dirty from the trail.  Even in the half-light, his eyes gleamed gold.  “We know what’s to gain, and we know what’s to lose if we’re caught.  Why’re we here now?  It won‘t pay off for--”

“Ages.  Good question, My.  First off, we need the power.  If it’s to get as big as we want it to be, the roots have to be there.  These roots.  Second, I’ve been planning this for a while.  Figuring how to do it.  Simple enough really, ‘cept the game I want to start it with takes a crowd.  More than me.  I invited you all because it seemed the kind of thing to be in your territory.  Plus you were already in the area.”  

“Well, I’m sure we appreciate the thought,” said the man in flannel with a thick Appalachian accent.

“Not at all, Jack.  Not at all.  Think nothing of it.”  The bowler was tipped slightly in the appropriate direction.

“Uh huh.”  The accented voice did not sound impressed.  “Still, I got to wonder.  Can you even do this type of thing? Does it work?”

“Well, that’s Lucas’s specialty.”  

The man in chambray, Lucas, cleared his throat.  “It is in the details.  If you’ll pardon the pun.  Theoretically, if the original stakes are high enough then… yes.  It is possible.  There will have to be a considerable amount of supervision, of that much I’m sure.  Someone will have to guide the process, bring it to the attention of the correct people, manage the land, etcetera.  It will take a great deal of investment.  However, if it pays off… It could well be the most lucrative endeavor any of us has ever seen.  Including me.”

There was a low whistle from the owner of the wolf cane.  “That’s quite a sum and no mistake.”

The bowler nodded.  “More than enough to make everyone here if not quite as powerful as in our wildest dreams then pretty da- darn close.”

“Indeed.”  The white suit leaned back in his chair.  “Still.  If you don’t mind me asking.  Lucas.” The name was enunciated carefully, almost doubtfully.  “What’s in it for you?  You’re not having quite the same, shall we say difficulties, as the rest of us.”

“There is the challenge,” said Lucas.  “It is hard for me to find a real challenge these days.  Also, I would like to do something to fight the effects of the railroads.”

There was a mutter of agreement at that.  My, in his leathers, pounded a fist on the table.  “Hear that!”

“It’s not on the railroad, though,” said Jack, his thick accent flattening it to ‘thoh.'  "Ain't much in the way of railroads out in these parts.  Shoot, it ain't even on a decent trail.

Lucas laughed.  “Give me twenty years and it will be.  By 1900, I will make it the biggest stop on this side of Salt Lake.”

“That little Mormon town?”

“It won’t always be little.  Trust me.”  This comment brought a laugh from all assembled.

“The cost?”  The question came from the grey suit.

“Not much.  For us,” said the bowler hat.

“It is minimal for them as well,” Lucas added.  “Most will probably thank us.”

“That’s how all the best games end,” said Jack.  He leaned in to the table and put a tooth on a leather thong right in the middle.  “I’m in.”

One by one, their markers followed.  A cats-eye marble.  A plait of gold (either metal or hair, but it was hard to say which).  A small leather wallet.  A white feather.

  
“All right.  Who wants to deal first?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ma'ii is Coyote's name in Navajo mythology. "Jack" does not come with a last name, but his tales are well known in the Appalachians. The comic book Jack of Fables is based on him.


	2. The Pitch

Frederick Smithe was not having a good day.

He stared absentmindedly at his half-finished shot of whiskey, not really seeing it.  It had been nearly a week since he had come to town.  A week, all of it spent looking for a likely plot of land, buying his supplies, and getting ready to set up shop.  He had thought that a drug store had been just what this little valley needed to start out on the right foot, and he had bought up a couple of plots of land right at the end of the town’s main road to host his venture.  If it was a little to far towards the shacks the miners lived in, well, that had just made it cheaper.  He had been ready to make a go of it, to follow in his father’s footsteps and carve a place for himself in the Western Frontier.

And today, just when he had been almost ready to open, a grander, better-stocked, and all around nicer store had opened in the middle of town, on a plot Frederick had apparently missed the opportunity to buy by less than a day.

He was doomed.  

“You going to drink that, or stare at it?”

Startled, he turned.  Two stools down the bar, a man was looking at him with a small smile on his face.  Frederick’s first thought was that he looked like a business man from back East, wearing a suit far too nice for this part of the country.  His second was that hair that red was probably illegal in some way.  When their eye‘s met, the man quirked an eyebrow and pointed.  “Your drink.  I’ve been here for a while, and you haven’t even touched it.”

Frederick straightened a little in his seat.  “What of it?”

“Nothing, nothing.  It’s just a shame to let whiskey go to waste, even the swill they sell here.”  With that, the man knocked his own drink back with a harsh movement, spilling a dribble down the side of his face.  “Damn,” he said, taking a handkerchief from a vest pocket and swiping at his cheek.  “And here I was speaking of waste.”  He smiled at Frederick, inviting him to share a joke.

Frederick found himself wanting to smile back.  “It wasn’t much,” he offered.

“I guess not.  Hey, barkeep!” He pushed the drink toward the other side of the bar and watched as the bartender filled it.  “Thanks.  Here.”  He turned towards Frederick, raising the small glass.  “To not wasting much.”

Frederick hesitated, then picked up his own shot, raised it, and downed it.  It caught in his mouth, fought his attempts to swallow, and burned all the way down.  Overwhelmed, he coughed, wrapping his arms around himself.

“Hey!  Whoa there.”  The other man reached over and slapped him hard on the back, once, twice.  “Breathe.”

After a while, the burning stopped.  Frederick shook his head, wondering what had possessed him to try and take the whole drink at once.  Usually he could barely sip the stuff.

“You alright?”  The man dipped his head to meet Frederick’s eyes, a stiff lock of bright blonde hair falling across his face.  Frederick thought he looked more than a little silly, but nodded anyway.  “Good. Horrible stuff, isn’t it?  Nothing like what we have back home.”  Apparently satisfied that Frederick wasn’t going to die, the man spun around and leaned his back against the bar.    “Where are you from?”

“East.”  Frederick’s voice sounded rough even to his own ears.

“Well, we’re all from back east.  Wherebouts?”

“Norfolk, Virginia.”  Even saying the words, he felt a pang of homesickness.

“You don’t say?  Me too!  Well, a little north of there, really.  The name’s Luke.  Luke Lyesmith.  Lucky, to my friends.”  He extended a small, clean hand.

“Frederick Smithe.”  Frederick grasped the hand and shook.  “Pleased to meet you, Lucky.”

“Pleasure’s mine, I’m sure.  You mind if I call you Fred?”

He did, really.  Nobody had called him Fred since he was a boy.  Then again, he had noticed that nicknames seemed to be all the rage in the west.  It was sort of nice to have someone give him one.

“Not at all,” he said, surprised at himself.

“Alright.  Fred.  Now, what brings a Virginia boy all the way out to the hind end of Nevada?”

It was surprisingly easy to tell Lucky everything.  How his father had raised him in their store out east, teaching him the trade from a young age.  How his brother had inherited the family store.  How college had been a little more than he had bargained for.  How he had come west to find his fortune.  How he had planned to be the town’s first drug store.

“Ah.  And that fellow across the way, Mr…”  
“Wednesday.” Frederick supplied.  It wasn’t a name he could forget, not after seeing it painted in clean letters on the store’s sign.

Lucky nodded, “Yeah, that’s it, Wednesday.  He beat you to it.  The rich son of a bitch.”

Frederick felt his eyebrows shoot up in surprise.

Lucky caught the look and grinned.  “Just because I wear a suit well doesn’t mean I’m well off.  First rule of the West, Fred.  Don’t’ trust appearances.  And I hate that type, anyway.  Fellow like that, silver-tipped cane.  What’s he doing in a podunk town like this?  I bet you he has a string of ‘Mr. Wednesday’s Drug and Supplies’ all over the west.  Probably plans to put someone else in charge and move on to the next town.  While you, you really tried to do something special.  Makes me sick.”

Frederick found himself nodding emphatically.  “I don’t know what I’ll do if I can’t start a shop here.  I already own the land.”

“And he’s just renting out that building.  Yeah, heard it myself.  Actually belongs to somebody else.”  Lucky shook his head and pushed his glass towards the other side of the bar.  “So much for self-sufficiency, eh?”  

“So much for the great West.”  Frederick felt his gut twisting.  There was no way he could fight for customers against a man with a dozen stores strung across the country.  There was nothing he could do.

They sat in silence for a while, Frederick sipping his drink. (What was it, his second?  Third?  He knew Lucky had insisted on paying for one.)  Maybe he should sell the land and go home.  He could work as a clerk in his brother’s store…

Without warning, Lucky slapped the bar.  “I’ve got it!”

“What?”  Frederick asked without thinking.

“Well, I…”  Lucky trailed off, eyeing him carefully.  “Hmmm.  Can I trust you?”

“What?”  he asked, confused.

“Can I trust you with a secret?”  Lucky asked, his voice lower.

Frederick nodded.  Why not?  By now, Lucky new everything about him.

“Alright.”  Lucky got up and moved down the bar, coming to sit in the stool beside Frederick.  Then he leaned in close and said, softly.  “Would you believe me if I told you I was a professional gambler?”

He thought, quickly.  The nice suit, the slicked back hair, the clean hands.  Actually, professional gambler made a lot of sense.  Frederick nodded.

“Well, I haven’t been in town very long, but already I’ve heard that old Mr. Wednesday over there, he likes a good gamble.  What do you say you and me clean the old bastard out?”  With this, Lucky sat back a little, and there was a gleam in his eye that made Frederick pause.

“Clean him out?”  

“Well, do some damage.  Set him back enough for you to get some money of your own.  Maybe you could move on to the next town, rent a building of your own, start a drug store before anybody else can get there.  Maybe you could build something really nice on the land you have here.  Something that would give even Mr. Wednesday a run for his money.  A real nice hotel, maybe. Or, I dunno, a bank.  Now, that’s where the real money is.”  

Frederick shook his head.  “How would we do that?”

Lucky pulled a box out of his coat.  “So glad you asked,” he said, sliding a slick new deck of cards out of the box and starting to shuffle.  “You know how to play five-card draw?”

“Doesn’t everybody?”

Luke grinned.  “You’d think so!  Well, I’ve played my whole life, or near enough.  And I have mastered,” he riffled the cards, shuffling them in a complicated move of the hands and wrists, “mastered, I say, a certain trick.  Ask me what.”  He looked as proud as a boy who had brought home a handful of frogs.

“What?” Frederick asked, a little annoyed.

“I,” Lucky said, pausing dramatically, “can count every card on the table.  I always know exactly what everyone has been dealt.”

If that was true… “So why did you say you weren’t well off?” Frederick challenged, proud of thinking of that detail.  How many drinks had it been, anyway?

“Because I don’t always play five-card draw.  But when I do, well, I can afford things like this.”  He flicked the collar of his jacket.  “And better than this.  It won’t be a problem getting you some of Mr. Wednesday’s cash, not at all.  I’ll need your help though.”

That set off some warning bells.  Even in Frederick’s state (surely it had only been three drinks) he knew a set up when he saw one.  He liked Lucky well enough, but… “What kind of help?”

“To really pull this off, I’ll need two people at the table with me.  That way, there’ll be more of a chance of one of us getting a really great hand, you know, one we can go the whole way on.  And we can bet together too.  I can teach you some signs, so I’ll be able to tell you when to go high, or low, or all in.  One person at the table, well, you just try for a good piece of luck.  Two people, and you’re guaranteed a big haul.”  His hands flew, shuffling, fanning, dealing.  He flipped over the hands he had dealt, one with a low pair, the other with a high three of a kind, then gathered up the cards again.  Frederick was fascinated.

Still.  “I don’t know,” he managed, watching the cards.  King Queen Jack Ten five.  “I don’t have much money, even for the stakes.”

“I tell you what.  We’ll do a game together before we play with Wednesday.  I’ll put up the stakes.  And then you can bet those winnings.  Shoot, you could even bet your land if you wanted.  It’s not like you’re going to use it if you loose.  And you won’t loose, I can promise you that.”

It was too good to be true.

What other choice did he have?

“Sure,” Fred heard himself saying, extending a hand to shake Lucky’s.  “Let’s milk the bastard for all he’s worth.”  They shook so hard that Fred‘s hand felt sore..

Lucky’s smile got even wider.  “That calls for another drink.  Barkeep!”


	3. The Wind Up

They worked out that night.

They worked out quite well.

Afterwards, determinedly sober but giddy on his thousand dollars, Fred bought Lucky dinner.  After that, they went to bed.

Tomorrow would be the big day.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

  
Fred was up with the dawn, and at the saloon in his new suit within an hour.  He was sitting at a table, waiting for his breakfast, when Mr. Wednesday walked in.

He was an older man with an eye patch who walked deliberately, using his silver-headed cane for support.  What was most notable about him, though, at least to Fred, were his servants.  Two black men walked behind him, each of them leading a large dog.  They didn’t act like slaves either.  Instead of keeping their eyes to themselves, they scanned the room almost incessantly, looking at everything and everyone, brazenly making eye contact.  Fred thought someone would have called them out by now, if it wasn’t for the dogs.  They were huge things, grey and shaggy, and they bared their teeth anytime someone got too close.

“We’ll have to watch those two.”  Lucky said, pulling up a seat at the table.  “It’d be easy for them to cheat.”

Fred shook his head, grinning.  “Don’t you ever--”

“What?  Announce myself?”  He mimed clearing his throat, an elaborate, painful-sounding  process that made Fred laugh.  “Nah, not really.  You get used to being inconspicuous after a while.  Does it bother you?”

“Startles me,” Fred admitted.

Lucky shrugged.  “Sorry.”  His attention turned back to the entourage that were walking up the back stairs.  “Had you seen him before? Wednesday?”

“Only from a distance.”  

“Mmm.  What do you think?”

“I think I’d rather keep my thousand than go within ten feet of those dogs.”  Wolves, he thought.  They looked more like what he imagined wolves would look like.

Lucky laughed.  “I hear they’re well trained.  Besides, the back room is too small for them to get up to much.”  He pointed at the door Wednesday was entering.  “We’ll watch, see who goes in.  The game doesn’t start for hours, but a few of them have taken to meeting up there early.  They’re the big players.  We’ll see if we can get in.  Meantime, what’s for eating?”

They shared breakfast, going over the signs again, until Lucky paused mid sentence, and pointed. “That fellow.  You know him?”

Fred followed his gaze.  “Yeah… that’s the fellow that sold me my land.  Uhm, Jackson or something like that.  He’s one of the few ‘government officials’ this town has.  He’s from Kentucky, from the sound of his accent.”

“That so?”  They watched the man climb the stairs and go into the right door.  “Looks like he’s one of our players.  Probably a decent hand.  Government work doesn’t pay that well.”

The next one to show up was a man in a chambray shirt and denim pants whose head was a blonde mop of curls.  “I know that one,” Lucky said.  “That’s Lucas Star.  Met him the other day.  He’s some sort of mining baron.  Apparently grew up poor as dirt, hit it rich.  Now he’s living the dream.”  There was something in his tone that made Fred take notice.

“You sound a little bitter,” he said lightly.

“Me?  Nah.  What would give you that idea?”  Lucky’s expression was less a smile and more a baring of teeth.  Then he laughed.  “Let’s just say that he got on my nerves, in the brief time I was talking to him.  Who the hell is that?”

Fred twisted to look.  The figure was dressed all in buckskins, carrying a haversack and a carbine slung over his back.  His hat was wide-brimmed and pulled low, but under it…

“That’s an Indian!” he breathed.  He’d seen them before, of course, but never walking into a saloon, bold as brass and without a by-your-leave.  

“A rich Indian, apparently,” Lucky breathed, watching the man walk up the stairs.  “Don’t that beat all?  It’ll be a hell of a game.  And they’ve got enough for a table now, really.  We should get up there before they start.”

“Before they…”

“Yeah.  Now, remember.  If they ask what we’re doing, don’t you get flustered.  Show them you’ve got the coin, they’ll calm down quick enough.”  They stood, and Lucky took a moment, brushing off his pants and straightening his bowler.  “You ready?”

“As I’m going to be.”  Fred wasn’t sure if that feeling next to his bacon and eggs was fear or excitement.  Then again, what was there to be afraid of?

“Good.  Let’s go.”


	4. The Game

When Lucky had said the back room wasn’t big, Fred hadn’t expected it to be tiny.

When they opened the door, the shaft of light they let in filled the whole room.  Behind the main table, there were maybe ten feet until the wall, and those were filled with Wednesday’s entourage.  The table itself was so close to the door that simply by opening it, Fred almost sent a chair spinning.  Everyone at the table looked up, squinting in the light.  The blonde dude half stood, hands planted on the table.

“To what, pray tell, do we owe the honor of this… intrusion?”  His voice was clipped, his accent flawless.  Fred thought he sounded like he was trying too hard for class.

Lucky elbowed him in the ribs, and Fred realized that was his cue.  “Gentlemen,” he said, using his very best clerk’s voice.  “We’d like to buy in.” He pulled a small satchel from his pocket and tossed it onto the table.

It made a very satisfying sound.

The blonde’s bright blue eyes followed it, then flicked back up to the two of them. He smirked and sat down.  The Indian’s brow furrowed.  (Were his eyes really yellow?)

“Wednesday,” he said, his voice cultured but accented.  “I understood this was a serious game.  Closed.”

Wednesday looked up at them, his one eye calculating.  “This is a serious game, my friend.  And that is serious money.  Who are you, stranger?”

“Frederick Smithe.  I just moved to town.”  

The clerk nodded.  “You own that lot at the end of the street.  Going to open a drugstore, didn’t you say?”

Fred’s mouth went dry, but he nodded.

“That so?”  Wednesday smiled.  “A competitor, eh?”

“I… Yes sir.”  Fred nodded.

“Well, that’s far more interesting.  You and your friend are welcome.  We’ve got two seats left.”

They were the seats nearest the door and furthest away from Wednesday.  According to Lucky, those were the best seats possible.  Fred took one, and Lucky closed the door and took the other.  

“Let’s see.” Wednesday said.  “Introductions. I’m Mr. Wednesday, as you know, and it seems you know Jackson here.  Then, around the table, this is My, of the Navajo, and on your other side is Lucas Star.”

“We have met,” Star said with a smile.  “Or, that is, two of us have.  Mr. Lyesmith, is it not?”

Lucky nodded, “Luke Lyesmith.  I’ll stick with the last name, since our first are so similar.”

Wednesday laughed.  “Things will be simpler.  Now, if one of you would like to deal?”

Lucky dealt.  And again.  They played for hours, stakes rising, things becoming more serious.  Fred watched Lucky from the corner of his eye.  Women came in, bringing drinks, and Wednesday flirted with each of them.  My was silent except for at particularly good jokes, when he laughed as though he would burst.  The first time that happened, Fred nearly died of shock.  After the second drink, Jackson started telling wild stories about things he had done back home, before his current life of desk work (he said ‘desk work’ the way many people would say ‘pox’).  Lucky had lit a cheroot almost as soon as they had started playing, though Fred had never seen him smoke before, and the fire on its end was a brand, one of the brightest things in the room.  Once in a while, one of the men flanking Wednesday would bend and whisper something in his ear.

Fred was having the time of his life.

He could tell when the end of the game was coming.  Star and Wednesday, though they both played well, were almost cleaned out, each with only a few chips in front of them. Even Fred could see Wednesday’s tell, a twitch on the side of his mouth beneath the missing eye.  They would have to make their move soon.

Then the signs came from Lucky.

Bet high.

Three knocks.  All in.

Fred looked at his hand.  Three aces.  Not bad, but…

He flashed Lucky a look, wanting to make sure.  Lucky was frowning at his own hand, seemingly oblivious.  “I’m out,” he sighed, putting his two cards down.

“Out,”  said My.

“Sadly, fellows, I’m gonna fold too.”  Jackson put down his cards.

Wednesday’s mouth twitched.  “All in.”  He pushed his chips towards the center.

Star’s eyebrows raised slightly.  “I’ll match.”  It emptied the pile in front of him.

Fred fought a smile.  “I’ll raise,” he said, hardly able to keep the triumph from his voice.  He pushed his entire stack into the center.  It was more than twice the size of the other two.

The room went absolutely still.  The faces went absolutely still.

Wednesday cleared his throat.  “It’s a gutsy move, boy.”

“You bet it is.  Now, if you’ll…” He reached in to gather the pot, and narrowly missed being hit by the silver-headed cane.  The tip glared at him, almost identical to the dogs that sat behind Wednesday.  They were glaring too.

“Just a second.  I believe it’s my turn to raise.”

Fred sat down slowly.  He shot a look at Lucky, but the man was still wearing his poker face.

Wednesday snapped, and one of the men behind him produced a sheet of paper, a pot of ink, and a pen.

“Now.”  Wednesday said, with a small smile.  “I know that my hand is better than yours.  And I know that you are nothing but a two-cent bluff.  So.”  He blew on the paper.  “I’ll see your stake, and raise you everything in my store.  Plus, another store in Salt Lake.”  He threw the note into the middle.  “Witness?”

“Witnessed.”  The others chimed in one by one.

Star coughed, producing a pen and paper.  “That iss quite a wager.  I’ll match it.  I have a controlling interest in a Kentucky coal mine.  It should turn out quite as much as your stores, Wednesday. Witness?”

“Witnessed.”  

Fred’s mouth wasn’t just dry, it was dust.  He tried to swallow. Uncertain, he shot another look at Lucky.  The man blinked, then tapped.  Three times.  And then, winked.

Oh damn, why not?

“Right.  I’ve got two lots at the end of the street, about a hundred in gold, and enough stock to run a shop.  I’ll add all of that.”

Wednesday’s smile showed too many teeth.  “Do you think that’s enough?”

“It’s all I have.  Here, give me a pen.”

Wednesday shook his head.  “It’s not enough.”

“I don’t have anything else.”

“Well then, I guess…”

“Wait.  If I may.  There is always something else.”  

Fred looked at Star, incredulously.  “What?”

For the first time that night, Star smiled.  “Your soul.”


	5. The Payoff

After that, it was quick.

In all the world, of all the gods, they were some of the best at taunting and twisting and working people against themselves.  It was, after all, just a soul.  Besides a superstitious feeling of attachment, Fred really didn’t have any use for it.   It was easy enough to convince Fred to wager something he didn't really even believe in.  

Of course Fred lost.  Lucky made a show of slamming his fist against the table, swearing that he had said two knocks to go all in, three knocks to fold, and why, why did he ever work with amateurs?  He stormed out, leaving Fred, Frederick, Mr. Smithe sitting in the room feeling strangely hollow.

He made it back to his brother's store and worked for the rest of his life as a clerk.  He was never happy, but never truly unhappy either.

He heard his family say that the west had broken him.  It didn't really bother him.

After the fallout, they split the pot. It was a strong soul, willingly given, and connected to a lot of money and a large parcel of land (including, thanks to some smooth work by Jack, the plot that Wednesday’s drugstore was on).  Not a bad pay off at all, really, not even in the short run.  But it wasn’t the soul that was important, after all.  It was the action.  The event.  The sacrifice of all of those things, under those circumstances, with all of them focusing, making it important through sheer force of will.

That was enough to set everything in motion.

After a long time, and with much nurturing and prodding, the little town (which they controlled a key section of) was the largest stop on the road from Salt Lake to California.  The grassy valley it was in was perfect for refueling trains, refilling them with water.  Commissioner Star made sure that the correct palms were greased, the right officials bribed, and it became the only town in that part of the world to legalize gambling and (eventually) prostitution.

And every time a wager was met, every time someone put all of their focus and intent (and a little bit of their soul) into the act of gambling, it was tied to that first game in a smoky back room.  And there was a pay off.  Not much of one, not individually, but it grew as the wagers and gamblers grew.  And, under Star’s careful guidance, it grew quickly.  It grew into a glut of power, siphoned off the tops of millions of souls.

Of course, that power did not always go to the same people.  Things shifted, the world changed, and eventually Lucky (or Low-Key, as he started calling himself) and Wednesday were no more powerful than the other gods, the ones not funded by the power of a million people pouring themselves into the con.  But that is another story and shall be told another time.  

Back then, in the early-mid eighteen hundreds, when they were all flush with the victory, they named the city after the grassy valley it sat in.  Las Vegas.  The Meadows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With the most sincere apologies to anyone who lives/plays in Las Vegas. It's hard to find stakes high enough for a godly caper.


End file.
